


Cancer by Moonlight

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward Sexual Situations, Caring, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Loss of Virginity, Messy, Midorima talks to himself in the mirror, Midorima uses too much lube, Nervous Tsundere, Vaginal Fingering, sex is so crazy glasses get thrown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 03:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18066107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "He jolts himself into awareness as if he's a time-traveler finding his way back to the present moment. He nearly trips over his own feet as he makes his way into his en suite bathroom and dares to look at his reflection in the mirror. A startled sound catches in the back of his throat—a hiccup of sorts—and he's working his fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it back into a presentable state." Midorima does his best to prepare for his first time but nothing goes as planned, also known as the first time Midorima's stash of lucky items misses the boat.





	Cancer by Moonlight

Midorima paces the length of his bedroom floor, his legs growing tired for all the times he's walked from one shelf-lined wall to the other. His nerves feel frayed and overused, and he knows that all of this is trite and tedious, not to mention, entirely counterproductive, but if he spends longer than three seconds standing still his knees begin to shake and his palms grow tacky with perspiration.

Midorima lowers his gaze to the floor, surprised to find that his carpet hasn't yet worn thin and threadbare. He exhales a weighty sigh and lifts his head, his eyes shifting to the radiance of the moon, too bright if his frame of reference is anything to go by—a giant eye set high in the sky that bespeaks of nothing other than judgment and ridicule. He walks over to his window and yanks the curtains shut with more force than strictly necessary, as if to say, _It's none of your business!_

Midorima rakes a hand through his hair while he ( _still_ ) unwittingly ambulates nervously throughout his room. He takes his bottom lip between the cool edges of his teeth and chews on the soft flesh until pain spreads through the delicate tissue and calls to his attention. He jolts himself into awareness as if he's a time-traveler finding his way back to the present moment. He nearly trips over his own feet as he makes his way into his en suite bathroom and dares to look at his reflection in the mirror. A startled sound catches in the back of his throat—a hiccup of sorts—and he's working his fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it back into a presentable state. His eyes are blown wide and there's a pinprick of blood on his lower lip. He looks wild and slightly unbalanced, and upon seeing himself like this, Midorima is disgusted with himself.

“It's only an act of intimacy. Many things copulate ... some daily. I'll be fine. Unless she decides to eat me afterward ... oh this is nonsense!” Midorima leans forward and presses his palms in against the countertop and faces himself in the polished glass for a second time. “Pull yourself together. You love her and you finally have a chance to do this.” He narrows his eyes at his reflection as if he can perhaps intimidate himself into a state of confidence. “There's no point in waiting any longer. You're only making things worse,” he says quietly under a huff of breath.

He feels like something passes through his bloodstream but he can't exactly label it, though it certainly doesn't feel like confidence, and for the short time it takes for him to make his way over to his door, he's trembling through a series of emotions. He reaches out and takes hold of the door handle, smooth and cool under his touch. He thinks he can see numbers written across his wrist, as though he's just a lawless fugitive standing in an immeasurable line with no visible end as he waits for his own demise.

The metal handle rattles in his white-knuckled grip and an ache of protest shoots through his palm. He reminds himself to be more wary of his actions: _A doctor's hands are the key to their livelihood, after all, especially if I want to be a surgeon._ He inhales a deep breath in hopes that it will ingrain him with enough strength to call out for you without his voice shaking apart.

“____, you can come up now. I'm fready, rea—finished,” he stammers. He knits his brows together and wrinkles his forehead in an expression of consternation. He exhales a puff of air and steps away from the door, his hand rising to lower his glasses just enough to pinch to the bridge of his nose.

“I'm hopeless,” he whispers, dejected. The coil that's been winding tight in his stomach since this morning springs open to release a lead weight in the low of his belly, and he has to choke back a wealth of fear as you step foot into his room.

“Why is it that whenever I leave you alone for longer than two seconds you look like you're up against the world? At this rate, you're going to get a peptic ulcer, at the very least.”

Midorima smiles softly and watches you as you make your way over to him. He tracks your motion ( _because any distraction is better than none at this point_ ) and when you smooth your fingers over the lines creasing his brow, he relaxes. “A peptic ulcer is rarely caused by stress, though stress can aggravate the sore. They're usually caused by H. Pylori or drugs that weaken the lining of the stomach, such as aspirin,” he gushes, albeit a bit flatly, his face blossoming into color when he realizes that he's just given you a medical lesson when he's supposed to be wooing you.

He pushes up his glasses and watches the corners of your mouth turn up and into a smile. “Don't be so nervous. I don't mind a little foreplay, _doctor_. Keep talking dirty to me,” you tease lightly.

Midorima can only imagine the uncomplimentary shade coloring his complexion considering that the heat blanketing his face is making it hard to breathe. He reaches up and captures your wrists in his hands and takes a single step in the direction of his bed. “Yes, well, I think that maybe we should save that kind of thing ... _ahem_ ... for another time. Nanodayo.”

“I will do things however you want, Shintarō,” you tell him, your voice soft and devoid of the jagged edges Midorima feels in the dark of his throat. “I just want to know that you're really ready to do this. I mean, I wouldn't want you to do anything that you–”

“I'm ready,” Midorima announces, almost too emphatically. He sighs for what must be the umpteenth time and lets some of the tension bleed out his shoulders. “I'm ready. I've been ... I've wanted to do this with you for some time.” It takes every vertebra from his backbone to push the words over his tongue and past his teeth, and if it were possible for one to catch fire from embarrassment, Midorima is sure that he'd be rolling around on the floor to smother the flames licking his body.

“Good. I don't think I have the patience to wait much longer,” you say, chuckling, and Midorima not only hears the authenticity of your words but he can _feel_ it.

“If you're certain then I suppose, well, shall we get started?” Midorima asks, swallowing the hard lump that forms somewhere in the middle of his throat.

“I don't see any reason why we shouldn't.” Your voice is laced with gentle compassion and it's so sweet that Midorima feels himself melting at the sound of it.

There's not much space between your bodies but Midorima steps forward anyway, and you close in at the same time, so it's not entirely surprising when Midorima steps on your foot, which in turn, leads to a mantra of apologies and another flush of radiant heat across his face.

Midorima wants to look away from you because he's sure that the humiliation he feels is written across his face but it looks like you want to say something, and he thinks that the least he can offer you is the courtesy of demure civility. However, to his surprise, you're reaching for him instead, your hands sliding down the crisp cotton of his shirt until you find the edge of the fabric. Your fingers glance bare skin and Midorima shivers at the touch, his eyes shuttering at the warm sensation. You brace your hands on his waist and gently pull him toward you in an attempt to close the scant distance made by his previous indiscretion. Midorima mindlessly follows the unspoken gesture and lifts his hands to tangle his fingers in your hair. His hands are shaking but your touch imbues him with a modicum of courage capable of pushing him in the right direction.

Midorima lowers his head and prays to any deity listening that he doesn't mess this up. He thinks about all of the items lining the shelves that dress his walls and today's lucky item, set out thoughtfully on his desk. It's not enough to quiet the myriad thoughts rushing about his head nor is it enough to quell the paranoia he feels, but if nothing else, it suggests an air of familiarity he can appreciate.

So when Midorima fits his lips to the shape of your own, he doesn't feel like the world is going to come crashing down around your mutual embrace. Nevertheless, it's awkward at first: Midorima accidentally catches his teeth on your bottom lip, and when you open your mouth to let his tongue in, he starts at the unexpected contact. He bumps his nose against your own and when he finally lets go of his inhibitions to slide his tongue into your mouth, warm and wet, a pulse of arousal shoots straight to his cock. He reminds himself that it's a natural response, one necessary should things advance in the direction intended, but the hard jut of his arousal dusts his skin with shades of apprehension and unease. However, after a moment of trepidation and clumsy movement, Midorima loosens up and lets the hand of instinct take hold. He focuses on the way your tongue feels against his own, the soft give of your mouth, and the solidity of your teeth along with the points of your canines. He wants to memorize every part of you and claim whatever he can as his own.

Midorima tracks the motion of your hands, underneath his pressed shirt, stroking up his sides and warm against his skin. He's never been one to think much of his looks but he's presently grateful for the effort he's put into his physique—hard and firm, lined with muscle and sinewy tissue in all the right places. The last thing he needs to concern himself over at a time like this is his self-image. He has enough to fret about—like the leg that pushes between his thighs and brushes against the hard outline of his cock.

_I'm never going to make it through this_ , Midorima thinks critically. He can feel sweat beading along his hairline and a nervous shudder curl around the entire length of his spine like an unwelcome serpent. Which brings him to board his next train of thought—he's always been on the side of snake eyes tossed against the side of seven. For as long as he can remember, (which is a fairly decent amount of time by reason of his remarkable memory) he has put his trust in the hands of fate and destiny and divine decree. However, to his dismay, not everything in life is predetermined, and on days that the stars are not aligned in Midorima's favor, he suffers at the hand of misfortune.

He only hopes that tonight is not one of those times.

Midorima groans helplessly into your mouth when you grind your hips against his own – i _s she on her tiptoes?_ – but the sound quickly is lost to the tangle of your tongues. It's not something Midorima expects of himself—he's not all that vocal on a normal day—but the sound seems to do something to you and he'd be lying if he said he didn't like it. Your hands travel up the length of his spine, your nails sliding gingerly against his skin. Midorima shivers under the touch and involuntarily deepens the kiss, a byproduct of increasing tension, and he's almost disappointed when you break off the kiss so you can yank his shirt over his head.

The action doesn't go entirely as planned; Midorima's glasses catch on the fabric and fly off of his face in the process, and when he reflexively tries to hold them in place, he knocks his hand against the underside of your chin.

“Ouch,” you say, giggling and rubbing the affected at the same time.

“I'm sorry,” Midorima says, and he means it, he's just not sure if he's sorrier for making a fool of himself or for bumping your chin. He's sure it's the latter but it's easier to lay the blame on your chin than to accept the fact that he erred, _again_. Yet, when he lifts his head and sees that your eyes are still glazed with heat and hazy with desire, it reignites the flame within him and spreads burning desire through every inch of his body.

“You really can't see well at all, can you?” you ask, reaching out to gently stroke your fingertips over Midorima's long lashes.

Midorima clears his throat and shakes his head slowly, almost as if he's admitting to something disgraceful. “Blind as a bat, as they say.”

“Well, you won't be needing them now, anyway. I'd hate to break them and with the way things are going...” you trail off and Midorima suddenly feels the crushing weight from earlier return.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats, “I don't mean to be–”

“No!” you exclaim and close your fingers around his forearm. “I didn't mean it like that. It's just that ... it's my first time too and I'm not exactly _good_ at this either. Not that you've been bad! I just mean–”

Midorima smiles and it seems like you're destined to play a game of cutting off each other's words in an attempt at rescuing the other from self-inflicted ineptitude. “I know what you mean,” Midorima says softly, his words a bare scratch above a whisper but without the shake of earlier. He steps forward with a renewed sense of confidence and takes your face in his hands. He kisses you while you fumble, gracelessly, over to his bed. You fall onto pristine sheets boasting resplendent thread-count, somehow managing to fit together side by side, your legs tangling together while your hands explore each other's bodies almost desperately.

After another long round of kissing, Midorima draws away and gently prods your shoulder in an unstated implication that has you rolling over and onto the flat of your back. He pulls himself up and into sitting, his eyes roving over your frame shamelessly, and he's suddenly grateful that he's not the only one susceptible to blushing like a ripe tomato. “You're beautiful,” he says, the tension in his voice underscoring the apprehension and the recurring fear he feels.

He thinks you mutter an expression of gratitude but he's too busy working his fingers beneath the waistband of your bottoms to make it out, knowing that if he doesn't act now his nerves will get the better of him, and he thinks he'd rather die than turn back now.

You lift your hips obligingly and Midorima slides the fabric down past your thighs, marveling in the soft of your skin before tugging the material down the rest of your legs. Midorima realizes, as he drops your bottoms to the floor with unnecessary delicateness, that he still needs to remove his own trousers. His heart hammers rapidly in his chest, and he thinks it skips three beats at once when he begins to undo the fasteners keeping them in place. His hands are shaking almost uncontrollably by the time he succeeds in pulling them down and off, much to his amazement, without managing to make a fool of himself.

“Are we going to ... _erm_ ... leave our underwear on?” you ask him, blushing profusely.

Midorima almost laughs then but he can't parse exactly _why_. He supposes it's because he has every intention of becoming a doctor one day and yet, the art of fornication is clearly outwitting him at this present moment.

“I'll take mine off while you do yours if it makes you more comfortable,” you say, and Midorima wants to tell you that it's not necessary but he can't bring himself to form the words so he just nods in lieu of a response.

Midorima averts his gaze from your motion, afraid that he'll lose what's left of his composure if he sees you stripped bare before him. Though, that's a joke in itself considering that he can't see much of anything at the moment. He opens his mouth to exhale a soft breath and dives headfirst into the inevitable, dragging the fabric of his boxers down his legs and kicking them aside.

Midorima is careful to remember that preparation is key but even that doesn't go exactly as planned: he uses far too much lubrication, leaving your skin sticky and viscous, and he spends too much time stretching you around his fingers because by the time he's finished, you're hypersensitive to his touch, and the wet patch on the sheets is uncomfortable, to say the least. Even the act of sliding a condom over the head of his cock and down its length doesn't seem to go the way he wants it to.

Still, you gesture for him to come closer, and Midorima is breathing a sigh of relief for it. He braces himself above you, and when you wrap a hand around his neck to pull him down and into a chaste kiss, he follows your lead with an obedience he didn't know he was capable of. He shudders when he feels your breath against his ear but the tremble pales in comparison to the shake that threads through his limbs when you whisper: “I'm ready.”

Midorima nods once and shakily fits a hand between your bodies, his movements working alongside a strange impression of autopilot methodicalness. He lines himself up to your entrance, his body somehow stiffer than his aching erection. “Are you sure?” he manages, anxiety lighting up his face despite the dimness of the room.

Midorima watches you nod and it's all the encouragement that he requires but he can't find it within himself to _move_. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss, and it's amazing to him that you always seem to know what he needs. He relaxes slightly and begins to gently ease himself into your body. You gasp into his mouth and Midorima's cock slides forward without much friction, the copious amount of lubrication slick enough to aid in his motion.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Midorima asks, terror outlining the tremor in his voice.

“I'm fine,” you tell him, shuddering and clutching at his shoulder. “It just hurt for a second. I'm okay now.”

Midorima furrows his brow, obviously dissatisfied with your answer because hurting you was never something he had in mind. Be that as it may, to his chagrin, he's so turned on that he can barely catch his breath. His body is thrumming with pleasure and if he focuses hard enough, he can feel the tight walls of your sex clench around his throbbing cock.

It takes a moment of adjustment, and what would likely be awkward disquiet if Midorima concentrated on it long enough, but after a short while, he's supporting himself on his forearms and moving his hips at a pace that's equal in collective satisfaction. He undulates his hips as your back comes away from the bed, and the slick slide is enough to make him fall apart on its own, but when you tug your shirt over your head and work yourself free from the confines of your bra, he's not entirely sure he's going to make it through the next thrust.

You breasts sway with each cant of his hips and Midorima is mesmerized by the rhythmic oscillation. He adjusts his position, lifting himself up enough to offer relief to his arms as he reaches out to run a hand over your chest. He watches in fascination as your nipples pebble under his touch, and he can't bite back a smile—doesn't even try to—when you emit a whimper-crossed moan at the sensation. It's plain to see that it's pleasurable and Midorima wants nothing more than please you, so he sweeps his tongue across his parted lips and ducks his head forward to take a turgid peak into his mouth.

You rock your hips forward and Midorima reminds himself that he's skilled in the art of multitasking and that he was in fact, in the middle of fucking you. He starts gyrating his hips a bit faster, his cock going a fraction deeper as he applies the perfect amount of suction to the taut nipple in his mouth. You begin to shake beneath him and when Midorima moves to manipulate the opposite peak, he finds comfort in the fact that you're just as flushed as he is. He decides to take the sensitive nub between his teeth, and no sooner than he gently tugs at your flesh can he hear your breathing turn hard and shallow.

He doesn't know what it is about the sound but everything suddenly seems to rush straight to his cock. His mouth falls slack and he gasps over the glistening slick he's left on your breast as his world begins to spin on its side. His hair catches against your skin, his forehead damp with sweat.

It takes more effort than Midorima prepares himself for, but he pushes himself up enough to look you in the eye. You gaze is lost to heat and the color of your eyes is eclipsed by the shadow of wanting. Midorima's arms are shaking but he musters up enough strength to crane his neck down to capture your lips in a final kiss that's as fierce and sloppy and needy as the way Midorima's taken to fucking you.

“I—I can't” Midorima stutters, his movements falling out of rhythm and turning over to jerky fanaticism. His body begins to quiver uncontrollably, his stomach pulled taut and clenching as he half-sobs through a series of panting breaths, the intensity of his orgasm too much to bear as he clumsily slams into you. There's a kaleidoscope of light behind his eyes and he knows that the momentary loss of sight has nothing to do with his missing glasses.

“Shintarō,” you say, sounding small against the weight of Midorima's breathing. He lifts his head, albeit not without difficulty for the way he's dizzy with heat and the electric remains of his capitulation. “You're holding me too hard,” you say, almost sheepishly.

“Oh,” Midorima replies and quickly removes his fingers from where they're digging into your skin. “I'm sorry.” Then, he looks down at you and the sudden awareness that you haven't come yet dawns on him. He feels as if he's been doused in icy water and it must show on his face because you laugh airily and reach out to stroke your thumb over the contour of his cheek.

“It's okay. I don't need to this time. I'm a bit too sensitive right now anyway.” It's reassurance in every shape of the word but Midorima still feels an overwhelming sense of selfish disappointment crest through him.

“I'm sorry,” he tells you again, wondering how many apologies he's going to rack up before the night is over. “I'll make sure to pay special attention to you next time. That is if you want to ... you know, again.”

You smile and the warmth that spreads to light in your eyes must be contagious because Midorima can feel it spill over and into the chill taking residence in his veins. “I would be happy to,” you confess, and it's everything that Midorima needs to hear to chase the demons out of his thoughts.

“I'm happy to hear that,” he says, feeling a little foolish after the words leave his mouth. “I think that we should perhaps clean up. I seemed to have used too much lubrication.” His face is burning in a response to his emotions but somehow he knows that in time, he'll no longer be up against these feelings.

Next time, he'll practice more courage and drive the negative emotions out of his heart because he knows now that there's nothing to fear when he has you by his side.

Though, maybe an extra lucky item or two wouldn't hurt either.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
